


Eighteen

by ladyknightley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cake, Gen, Socks, all your traditional birthday gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6143086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightley/pseuds/ladyknightley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Ron's birthday, and the day can't go uncelebrated even if they are stuck in a tent in the middle of nowhere. Drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen

“Happy birthday, mate.”

Ron blinks as Harry drops a card and a terribly wrapped package in his lap. “We’re doing presents?” he asks, tearing into the paper. He blinks again as soon as the gift is unwrapped and he can see what’s inside it. “Are these…my own socks?”

“Yes,” Harry says apologetically. “I’ve been wearing them the past few months and I thought you might want them back.”

Ron squints at him. “I thought they were mine,” Harry clarifies. “But don’t worry, I’ve washed them.”

“Thanks, mate,” Ron says. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“I know, I know,” Harry says, waving him away. He turns seriously. “Honestly, I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a real present. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for—”

“Oh, shut up,” Ron says. “Whatever it is. Shut it.”

“But I—”

“Unless it you were going to get me Cannons tickets. Was it going to be Cannons tickets?”

“When this is over,” Harry says, gesturing around him in a way meant to encompass both their tent (today pitched in a sodden field in Cumbria, miles from any other living creature that doesn’t have four legs and say ‘baa’) and also Voldemort and the Death Eaters and everything the past few months has been, “I will buy you a Cannons season ticket every year for the rest of your life. Top Box, and everything.”

Ron grins. “I’ll be sure to live to a hundred and eighty then, to get my money’s worth out of you.”

“I’ll write it into my will, in case I predecease you,” he promises, and both of them laugh even though the chances of that happening are probably too real to risk making a joke. “Hey—you haven’t opened your card yet! I bought it specially in that Tesco we snuck into in Shepton Mallet last week.”

Ron rips it open. On the front is a cartoon of a boy in a car with TWO TODAY! printed in huge bubble letters. “The car’s orange, see?” Harry says. “Also, it was the last birthday card they had that didn’t have flowers or hearts on it.”

Ron laughs. “This is just too much,” he says, pretending to choke back tears of emotion. Then he laughs again.

“What?” asks Harry.

“I was going to make a daft joke about how all my other birthdays pale in comparison to this one,” he says. “But, actually, if you think about last year…”

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, maybe it’s not as bad as all that… No one’s poisoned you yet today!”

“And I’m not dating Lavender, either. It definitely could be worse,” Ron says cheerfully. “Although, Hermione’s not speaking to me today either, so maybe this is going to become a pattern for my birthdays in the future…”

Harry makes a non-committal noise in his throat and, like she’s been summoned by him saying her name, Hermione appears. “Dinner’s ready, Harry,” she says, addressing him like Ron’s not there.

“See?” Ron hisses, as he follows his friend back into the tent. Harry just shrugs again, then moves out of the way so Ron can see their table. Instead of the usual unappetising sludge made from whatever they’ve managed to scavenge, there’s a plain sponge cake with one candle stuck into the middle, and three plates. “Cake?” he asks, surprised. “How’d you manage that?” he asks Harry, but it’s Hermione who answers.

“You can’t have a birthday without cake. And there’s a muggle bakery in the town. So.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, almost bored, but there’s a hint of smugness about her face as he studies the cake in sheer delight. Hermione has forgiven him enough to ensure he has cake on his birthday. That’s better than a lifetime of Cannons tickets.

“Hermione, thank—”

“You’d better hurry up and blow out the candle before it drips wax onto the icing,” she says, so he does. Harry whoops and cheers like they’re at a party in the Gryffindor Common Room, and Hermione gives a few quick, polite claps.

He doesn’t dare make a wish, yet. It feels like asking too much. Instead, he cuts the cake into three roughly equal pieces, plates them, and hands out forks. Harry scoops out a forkful of his own piece then raises it high in a toast. “Happy eighteenth, Ron!” he says, and Ron grins back.

“Cheers,” he says, raising his own fork high like Harry. He risks a look at Hermione. She has a much smaller forkful, and she lifts it only a couple of inches, giving him a brief nod. Then, like an afterthought, a tiny, but genuine, smile.

And there it is—the birthday wish he didn’t dare ask for. Maybe eighteen won’t be entirely awful, after all.


End file.
